


The Fox's Sleep

by davaia



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Qui-Gon Jinn, Alpha Tahl, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Claiming Bites, Drama & Romance, Elements of Recovery and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fantasy elements, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mild Gore, Mutual Pining, Omega Obi-Wan Kenobi, Omega Xanatos du Crion (Star Wars), Omegaverse, Partners to Lovers, medieval elements, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21724033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davaia/pseuds/davaia
Summary: How is it they have a secret omega, with the mouth of a poet and the name of a peasant?Qui-Gon Jinn’s place in life was hard-won, his rank earned through years of bloodshed and heavy sacrifice. As Field Marshal of the Keep, he stands among the most powerful and commanding alphas in the kingdom.He finally meets his match.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn/Xanatos du Crion, Xanatos du Crion/Other
Comments: 64
Kudos: 239





	The Fox's Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> I have quite a few wonderful people who’ve helped out with this story. Puns originally dropped a prompt idea into my tumblr inbox last summer—this story certainly isn’t that, but it set me on my way with it all. Saner and OddlyExquisite have been putting up with my screaming about this for weeks (months?), and both were kind enough to do a test read on it. Finally, as always, merry_amelie and her amazing beta work are what make the difference between a dodgy draft and something worth sharing with the wider fandom-world. Thank you all, my friends!  
> 
> 
>  **FYSA:** there’s no non-con in this fic. Assume all references to sex and the main characters taking place during the story are consensual and occurring at 18+ years of age. That being said, there are handsy alphas, references to and threats and/or attempts of non-con throughout the story, and gross and bigoted things said in general, including when Obi-Wan is underage (17). Set in a world where mpreg exists, though none is planned for Obi-Wan. **No** additional tags will be included in the body of the text.  
> 
> 
> Also: not a single aspect of the world-building is meant to be historically accurate in any sense. Don’t come for me, poindexters.  
> 
> 
> Onwards!  
>    
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> 

Winter held on with savage claws out in the west. Even at the height of summer, the lowland plains held a feeling of yawning, endless desolation—an infinite horizon of flat grasslands, broken up only by colossal boulders left behind by ancient, receding glaciers. 

The seasons held Stewjon in an uncomfortable in-between now. Snow that fell but never landed, ice that came in the night and melted by sunrise. It was still early morning, and the cold was nearly a tangible thing, broken only by the crunch of hoofbeats on frozen tall-grass, the _creaking-metal-jangling_ of leather saddles. 

No one had spoken a single word in nearly two hours. 

Qui-Gon Jinn’s retinue was small, just himself and five other alphas in total: Tahl Uvain, his right hand and fraymaster, the second-highest ranking next to Qui-Gon himself as Field Marshal; commander Dralig, and three of his company’s strongest soldiers: Offee, Muln, and Maul. 

"Heard they’re a different breed out here, these westlanders," Muln piped up at last, the grin evident in his voice. The sound was jarring after such silence. "Closer to wolves they are than alphas. S’what they said back home." 

"I’ve never seen anyone fight dirtier than a Kenobi," Offee said. 

"Mind your voices," Tahl said sharply. "There isn’t a stone in this place without a set of eyes and ears. Don’t the lot of you forget it for a single moment we’re here." She cast a hard look over her shoulder. "Understood?" 

Three replies, chagrined from Muln and Offee, soft from Maul. "Yes, sir." 

The partnership was strong and straightforward: the kingdom’s capitol, Bespin, provided the westland tribes with generous subsidies and resources for martial training, and the westland tribes provided Bespin with the most cunning and ruthless warriors in the known lands. 

There was movement on the far horizon. A flash of metal armor, and the sentry turned their horse and set off into a gallop. 

"Do you think they’re putting the kettle on for us?" Tahl asked, grinning wide. 

"We may hope," said Qui-Gon. 

When they arrived at Stewjon Hold, the gates were open for them. 

They rode in tense silence. Through rows of alpha men and women standing at attention in the courtyard, Qui-Gon’s retinue was only six among dozens in their fighting-prime: Takodana, Ithor, Malastare, Karkaris, Stewjon. A loose confederation of warlords, only just tamed by Bespin’s money. 

Even among such impressive alphas, Qui-Gon cut a powerful figure. Nearly six-and-a-half feet tall, broad-chested, with stark and leonine features and a crooked nose that had never been treated properly after he broke it out in the field. His thick hair hung past his shoulders, bronzed with early silver, half-tied back with a strip of leather, and his beard was always edging into unkempt. 

The Latter Wars had ended a decade ago—he himself had negotiated the armistice and final peace resolution between Bespin and the Outer Rim territories. It had earned him one of the highest appointments in the kingdom, but on journeys such as this, he still wore his old, battle-scarred leather breastplate, the worn tall-boots, saber strapped across his back, just as he had as he faced down every bloody battle, all those years ago. 

Bespin had been allied with the westland territories then, but it was a tense and tenuous thing. Battered armor and a bloody sword had earned him far more respect than a title had out in places like this. 

They halted before their host, a ruddy-skinned, stocky alpha with auburn hair gone white at his temples. Hands folded at back, he bowed low as Qui-Gon dismounted. 

"Welcome, Marshal Jinn." 

They clasped arms, then, leather vambrace against bronze. "Lord Ele-Wan Kenobi," Qui-Gon said with a respectful dip of his head, "I served with a number of your brethren in the Wars. They are a great credit to Stewjon, and a great credit to your name." 

"And we work to continue that tradition, as the oldest unbroken alpha bloodline in the kingdom," Ele-Wan said, chin high. "We have many fine candidates for the Keep’s officer ranks." 

"Tahl Uvain is our fraymaster. She will oversee the training exercises and selection," said Qui-Gon. "We thank you for your hospitality in the meantime." 

They stabled the horses and rested only briefly before Tahl took command of the vast, dirt-packed courtyard. Over six-feet tall herself, Tahl cut an intimidating figure in her own oiled, leather armor, dark hair braided tight in a coil around her head. 

"Break off into your companies!" she bellowed, a thick, leather-bound tome in her hand—meticulous records she kept on her own and allied cadres, prospects and plans for those who might make it to the Keep and eventually serve among the ranks of alpha leadership. 

Qui-Gon observed as Tahl called and annotated the book as she made her way through each territory, all distinct from the next—first the scarified Ithorian ranks, then Malastare with their blue-painted bodies, Takodana with their filed teeth and stark, black-lined eyes. Karkaris with shaved heads and blue-hued armor. Stewjon was last, all fearsome in their bronze, those of Kenobi blood with their wild, fire-red hair. 

Tahl went through them all, then frowned at her ledger. "Where’s your own son?" she asked of Ele-Wan, then glanced at the page again. "Obi-Wan." 

Silence. 

She looked up, only to find all others’ eyes fixed on the ground. 

Ele-Wan’s own gaze was focused on some point just over her right shoulder. "He died," he said brusquely. "Winter Fever took him." 

"Condolences. We had reports he was among the finest in your ranks," said Tahl. She scrawled something in her ledger, then crossed briskly through a line. "When?" 

"What?" 

"When did Obi-Wan die?" 

"Half year or so ago. Bit more." 

"Why didn’t you report it?" 

"…An oversight," Ele-Wan said stiffly. "We have grieved him deeply." 

"Understandable. You’ve continued to collect training and equipment allowances on his behalf," remarked Tahl, never one to mince words or waste her breath on platitudes. "A related oversight, I assume." 

"Our accounts will be rectified," Ele-Wan said coolly. 

"Indeed," Tahl murmured as she made a final note in her ledger. "Let’s begin." She shut the book and turned to face the rows of warriors standing at attention. 

_"Pair off for sparring!"_

Tahl ran the westland ranks into the ground: drills, endurance, swordsmanship, hand-to-hand combat, horsemanship. Through mud and filth and, often enough, their own blood. Through the stiff and frozen scrub of Stewjon’s flat plains. 

Qui-Gon paced along the outskirts, only watching, never participating or speaking. His attention strayed only once, lifting his ear to catch the faintest sound of chimes on the breeze, the strange, diffuse scent of green-bright summer grass. 

He was shadowed by the feeling of eyes on his back, and the same frisson of tension he felt in the moment before he called the charge. 

  


* * *

  


It was the third night, and the Keep’s retinue was crowded along benches and communal tables for dinner—Qui-Gon, Dralig, and Tahl near the front of the room with Ele-Wan and the other clan leaders; Muln, Offee, and Maul were near the middle, doing well enough to mix among the westland soldiers. 

That scent was the first give-away. 

It was a breeze of summer air which gusted through the cold, stone great-hall. The second was sound. Of bells and tiny chimes, no longer carried on the breeze, but on a pair of heavy, bronze anklets and bare feet. 

" _Omega_ ," murmured Dralig. "They’ve got a bloody omega." 

A young male cupbearer, certainly no older than his late teens. A nervous thing with a mop of copper hair falling into his eyes, a missed meal or two away from looking outright emaciated. He moved stiffly, his grip clenched so tightly around the ceramic ale-pitcher he held that the handle looked liable to snap off. 

Alpha heads turned, noses lifted to scent the air as he passed—expressions morphing into surprise, interest, outright leering. Someone whistled, low and vulgar, at his back. Omegas—even a young one whose body was little more than bones and grit teeth—were a scarce and coveted commodity out in the west. 

"Bloody hell," Tahl muttered. 

The omega held his gaze steady and fixed forward, making eye contact with no one, jaw clenched beneath the oppressive scrutiny that had descended upon him. 

Further down the table, Ele-Wan watched him hawkishly. 

"What’s his name?" asked Tahl asked of their table-mates. "And whose is he?" 

"Ben’s nobody’s. Lad’s mean as a snake and bites twice as hard," said a man to Qui-Gon’s left. Then he muttered, almost resentful, "Kenobi ought to offer a prize for the alpha willing to break him in." 

"What, like a bleedin’ tourniquet for when he bites your dick off?" another scoffed towards her plate. "Inn’t worth that." 

"Hn," another man—a bald alpha of middle age and a broad, barrel-chested build—huffed, watching the boy with a dark, speculative gaze. "For a go at that one, I might be willing to risk it." 

"An unbonded omega the lord hasn’t taken for himself?" Qui-Gon murmured behind his cup, for only Tahl to hear. 

She caught his eyes briefly and her shoulder twitched in a tiny shrug. 

The omega was becoming a source of entertainment for the room. He slapped a wandering hand away from his backside to a chorus of laughter around the tables. 

Qui-Gon drained his ale. 

When the cupbearer made it to him, he glanced down towards the floor, just long enough to note the boy’s anklets were welded closed, the skin beneath rubbed raw and flecked with dried blood. "You’ve been watching our training," he murmured as his cup was refilled. 

Ben froze. 

Qui-Gon turned his head only to meet a pair of leaf-green eyes, too bright above too-hollow cheekbones, Ben staring at him with a strange, intent expression. The boy opened his mouth as if to speak, but was interrupted by a demand further down the table. 

He looked away, gone before either could say anything else. Even Qui-Gon couldn’t help but scent the air in Ben’s wake. That intoxicating, green-grass smell—that smell of pure _omega_ —lingered behind, backed by the fading sound of clinking chimes. 

  


* * *

  


It was an old bond-mates’ tale that the juice from crushed blumfruit berries could mask the scent of an omega. It was unfortunate, then, that the fruit had a highly distinctive scent of its own, and it was wholly out of place in Qui-Gon’s dark, drafty quarters. 

He sighed, already halfway out of his jacket as he kicked the door shut behind him. He tossed it onto the bed and slumped down into a chair and began to work at the fastenings of his boots. "Come out of the shadows, Ben." 

Immediately, Ben slipped into the paltry glow of the firelight. He’d tied strips of cloth around his ankles to silence the bells, spots of pink blumfruit juice sticky over the scent glands under his jaw. He held himself differently now, away from the throng of alphas, his chin lifted and his shoulders square as he gazed at Qui-Gon. 

Ben touched his left fingertips to his forehead, his lips, and finally his heart. He dipped his head in reverence. "Marshal Jinn, I come to you in my moment of need," he said softly, his voice a smooth, cultured tenor, "I ask of you with humility, grant me your wisdom and counsel." 

Qui-Gon’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Ben addressed him not in Common Basic, but in the High speech of the kingdom’s ancient long-dead epic poets and philosophers. The words and motions were gravely ceremonial, a formal invocation. 

"Such eloquence for a servant," Qui-Gon remarked. "Do they teach you High Basic and metered epics while you’re scrubbing pots down in those kitchens?" 

"No," Ben said simply, in Common now. "None but the nobles are taught such things." 

Qui-Gon hummed, thoughtful as he scrutinized the omega before him. "You have their hair, so you must be one of the Kenobis," he remarked. "And yet there is no record of you within the lineage. How is it they have a secret omega, with the mouth of a poet and the name of a peasant?" 

"My name was taken. Ben was given to me in its place." 

"And what of your true name, then?" 

"Dead," Ben replied. "Burned and buried." 

"I see." Qui-Gon leaned back in his chair, boots forgotten and half-unbuckled. "At what age did you present as an omega, Obi-Wan Kenobi?" 

Obi-Wan shut his eyes briefly, as if relieved to hear the name again. "Seventeen." 

"Late," Qui-Gon remarked. "And how old are you now?" 

"Seventeen and six months." 

"It’s my understanding that the Kenobi clan raises all their children as alphas. Trains them up for war and little else," Qui-Gon remarked. "How does a man like Ele-Wan Kenobi fare, discovering he’s the first in two centuries to break your alpha bloodline?" 

"You’ve seen," Obi-Wan said, voice tight. "I _know_ you’ve seen—better a dead alpha than an omega for a son. He took everything away from me— _everything_. My name, my title—made me—" He looked down at himself, at his bare, bony feet and plain linen shift, the anklets that served as nothing more than shackles. 

"And so you’ve been haunting our practices," Qui-Gon said. "Watching the brothers who would leave you behind?" 

Obi-Wan’s expression cracked for a moment, into something vulnerable and full of sorrow and hurt. "No one looks at me, except to—" He dropped his gaze. "They’ll touch me, but they won’t look me in the eye when they do it," he admitted softly. 

"And what am I meant to do about that?" Qui-Gon asked, bluntly but not cruelly. 

"I know of your deeds and negotiations in the Latter Wars, read your Armistice treaty— _studied_ it—they’re testaments to your reputation for great honor and wisdom. Take me back to Bespin," Obi-Wan said. "Let me learn from you—let me continue my training." 

"Only alphas and betas are allowed among the ranks, young one. You know this." 

"Train me as an omega. I can—I’ll pretend to be yours," Obi-Wan insisted. "No one ever sees anything beyond what they desire in an omega, and no one questions the alphas in power who keep their omegas close at hand. You may _use_ that," he said, stronger now. "Train me and I’ll be your weapon." 

"Bespin isn’t the only province with kinder notions towards omegas," Qui-Gon countered. "You could flee the west. Make your way to Chandrilan." 

"They would only drag me back in chains." 

"I don’t hold the lock and key on fairness or any sort of wisdom. Are there no alphas in the west to whom you could make such an offer of allegiance?" 

"None who have the rank or spine to stand against my father." 

Obi-Wan took two steps forward, fingers curling over the back of the chair opposite Qui-Gon. "Ele-Wan lied to the face of the Field Marshal. He cannot stand against your rank, nor can he prevent you from claiming me without publicly admitting to his own deception. You have every inch of the high ground. Help me escape from this place," he said fiercely, "and I’ll burn the bloody _world_ down for you." 

Qui-Gon sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, exhausted. "I greatly admire your courage and your intellect, Obi-Wan, but I cannot help you in this." 

Obi-Wan’s jaw tightened. He lifted his chin but held Qui-Gon’s eyes with a defiance that only thinly veiled his rising despair. "I’ll give you my heats." 

Qui-Gon’s expression darkened. "Don’t insult me." 

"Is that not enough?" Obi-Wan burst out, face reddening. "What more can I offer you?" 

"What exactly is it about me, Obi-Wan, that gives you the impression I would ever have someone against their will?" 

At that, Obi-Wan faltered. 

"You’ve been taught that omegas have no value beyond what they can provide to alphas. Sex, obedience, offspring," Qui-Gon said, watching the boy. "I have sympathy for your plight, but it’s not my responsibility to teach you otherwise. I haven’t the time or room to spare in my life to take on an omega. Least of all an apprentice." 

Obi-Wan’s expression grew stricken. "I—you know what they’ll do to me here," he whispered. "You’re my only hope." 

"I am sorry, young one," was all Qui-Gon offered as he returned to prying off his boots. "Truly." 

"I’ll beg," Obi-Wan said, desperately now. "I’ll _beg_ —" 

"You won’t," Qui-Gon glanced up, and then looked meaningfully at the door. "Goodnight, Obi-Wan." 

  


* * *

  


There was no scent of summer green-grass the next day, no drifting sound of chimes. Just the odor of sweat and manure and harsh sounds of Tahl’s training exercises. 

  


* * *

  


The feast started early for the company’s final day in Stewjon, and the drinking even earlier. Qui-Gon paced himself, never one to overindulge outside the guarded confines of his own home. Those seated with him at the head table were well into the cups, except himself, Tahl at his side, and ever-hawkish Ele-Wan. 

Their eyes caught once across the tabletop, and Qui-Gon lifted his goblet with a subtle dip of his head. 

Ele-Wan returned it coolly. 

Soon enough, rounds of food began to flow from the kitchens, great, groaning trays and steaming bowls ferried by beta servants to fill the long tables. All of it followed by fresh pitchers of wine and ale, and the heady scent of a sunlit summer meadow. 

Obi-Wan didn’t speak or make eye-contact as he filled Qui-Gon’s cup, didn’t even acknowledge the alpha’s murmured thanks for it. He had the flat-eyed gaze of someone who had given himself over to hopelessness. He moved away, further down the table, past the bald, barrel-chested alpha seated near Qui-Gon on the first evening. 

The man caught Obi-Wan by the fabric of his shift and patted his own thigh. "Have a seat, little wildling, hey?" 

Obi-Wan pulled a face of disgust and jerked away. 

"Ben," Ele-Wan said, his voice low and heavy with warning. 

Obi-Wan froze. Slowly, he set the pitcher down on the table, his gaze settling on the middle distance. His jaw flexed as he was grabbed around the waist, the man’s powerful hands very nearly encircling it fully. 

"There’s my good lad." The alpha hauled Obi-Wan down and against his chest, burying his face in the boy’s neck as he ground out a low, vulgar noise. " _Gods above_ ," he groaned, pulling Obi-Wan’s legs wider and forcing him into a straddle over his lap. "You smell so sweet…" 

Obi-Wan was ashen-faced, tense enough to snap and breathing hard through his nose. He stayed quiet, still, watching Ele-Wan from the corner of his eye. 

Qui-Gon observed with a neutral expression. His right index finger twitched. 

Tahl leaned in at the signal, full wine glass hovering in front of her lips. "Riff Tamson," she murmured. "Lord of Karkaris. Unbonded alpha. He controls much of the mountainous territory to the south, including the pass into the coastal lands." 

Tamson had settled back into his chair, left arm looped tight around Obi-Wan’s waist, gone back to eating with his right. Periodically he would lean close to smell and mouth at the side of Obi-Wan’s neck, tightening his hold, rubbing at Obi-Wan’s thighs. 

Obi-Wan endured in silence. He made no move to acknowledge the bits of food or cups of wine Tamson would press against his lips, just stared ahead, hands clenched against his own knees. 

It all just seemed to amuse Tamson more than anything. "Pretty little thing," he crooned, "I could snap you in half between my fingers if I wanted, eh? You think?" His left hand slid up to grip Obi-Wan by the jaw, pulling him close to whisper right into his ear. 

In one smooth motion, Obi-Wan’s arm dipped down—wicked metal flashed bright as he seized Tamson’s own serrated boot-knife and plunged it into the alpha’s right hand—so fast that no one reacted until he ripped it back out with a splatter of blood over the table. 

Tamson’s shriek lit up the hall. 

Chaos erupted—shouting, shattering glass, Tamson’s wailing— 

Obi-Wan was rattled by none of it—teeth grit, legs tight around Tamson’s as the pain-crazed alpha tried to buck him off. He gripped the knife in both hands now, giving himself leverage as he plunged it down a second time, a third—in a fresh angle, deep enough to pin Tamson’s mutilated hand to the table. 

Tamson writhed and gibbered, worsening the ghastly wound as he tried to wrench his hand back. 

Obi-Wan relented only when someone seized him under the shoulders, forcibly dragging him off the wild alpha—but not before his heel struck Tamson’s nose in a sickening, wet crunch of gore and cartilage. 

Qui-Gon and Tahl were both on their feet, hands instinctively gripping their swords as Obi-Wan was hauled away from the hall, his foot leaving behind a streak of blood on the stone floor. In the moment before he disappeared through the door, Qui-Gon caught a flash of the omega’s face—and the look of grim satisfaction on it. 

  


* * *

  


Ele-Wan looked pinched the next morning as they prepared to make their formal farewells. He was joined only by the clan leaders and the members of his own household, the atmosphere muted if not outright tense. 

Tamson was notably absent. 

Qui-Gon and Tahl stood shoulder-to-shoulder, facing Ele-Wan on the sturdy, wooden chair that served as his throne. The great hall was chilly and drafty, the fires neglected overnight in the aftermath of the grisly uproar. Someone had scrubbed the stone floors clean, but they’d been unable to coax the dark stains out of the tabletop, heaviest around a deep, violent gouge in the wood surface. 

Tahl was speaking with Kenobi—praises for his alphas, the hospitality, how she and the Marshal would send word of their selections for the officer’s cadre at the Keep in a few weeks’ time. Qui-Gon was distracted, staring at the remnants of the messy scene. 

Obi-Wan himself stood in the shadows with the rest of the household, well behind his father’s chair. He had a blackened eye and split lip that still oozed sluggishly. A tall, male beta aide gripped him by the elbow, as if the boy were liable to haul off and attack someone else. 

Qui-Gon looked forward once more only to find Ele-Wan’s bright, sharp eyes on him. 

"We’ve supplemented your retinue with additional supplies for the journey back to Bespin," Ele-Wan was saying, "Your alphas will—" 

"—I have one matter yet to address with you, Lord Ele-Wan," Qui-Gon said abruptly. 

Tahl looked sideways at him, her confusion clear. "Sir?" she all but hissed through her teeth. 

Ele-Wan arched a brow at him, poised half-way out of his chair. He sat down again. "Being?" 

"The death of a child is a hardship no father should be forced to bear," Qui-Gon said. He straightened, folded his hands tidily at the small of his back. His sword clanked softly at his side. "It is an understandable thing that your household might overlook a notification to the Keep, with regards to the financial training subsidies provided on Obi-Wan’s behalf." 

"Indeed," Ele-Wan said slowly, warily. 

"We’re taking the omega as your repayment," Qui-Gon said bluntly. "Ben will have the extraordinary honor of joining the noble House Serenno in Bespin." 

Shocked murmurs filled the air. Tahl was still at Qui-Gon’s side. His gaze flickered down to Obi-Wan’s wicked anklets, then to the man holding Obi-Wan fast. "Get those off him." Directly to Obi-Wan, then, "We leave at half-day. Pack only the possessions you can’t be parted from." 

Obi-Wan stared, eyes wide and bruised jaw slack. 

Qui-Gon arched an eyebrow at him. "Something to say?" 

"I—no," Obi-Wan bit out, "sir—I—" 

"Go." 

Obi-Wan’s mouth snapped shut and he wrenched his arm out of the aide’s grip. 

Ele-Wan had grown violently red in the face, his fists tight upon the arms of his chair as they quivered with suppressed outrage. His stare oozed with poison, saying well enough everything which he held behind pursed, bloodless lips. 

Qui-Gon leveled a neutral look upon him, unshaken. "No need to further rectify your accounts with the Keep." He cast the warlord a final, graceful nod, hand pressed against his breastplate. "And again," he said, holding Ele-Wan’s vicious gaze as he did so, "I wish you strength and peace as you grieve the loss of your son." 

  


* * *

  


Obi-Wan stood outside the gate, alone, hands clenched and arms stiff at his sides as he tried to suppress his shivering. He had no belongings with him, just waited as he had in the great hall that morning—facing his fate head-on, barefoot and clothed in nothing more than a thin, linen shift and the shreds of his dignity. 

"Go on ahead," Qui-Gon instructed Tahl. "I’ll catch up." 

Tahl threw him a pointed look but obeyed wordlessly, spurring the bay gelding she rode into a faster trot. Her anger was hot and bright enough to light up the grey sky, but she held onto it, banked it for the right moment. 

She gave a short, sharp whistle and the rest of their retinue flowed around Qui-Gon like a parting river of dust and hoofbeats. 

They knew better than to look twice or question even once. 

Qui-Gon drew up to Obi-Wan with his mount, a stocky, dapple-grey thoroughbred from his own stable. She nickered and tossed her mane as Qui-Gon dismounted, then settled and watched the two with her placid, brown eyes. 

Obi-Wan still looked a bit lost, as though he weren’t sure what had taken place. "With—I’m riding with you?" 

"It’s hard travel into Bespin," Qui-Gon answered, "but you’re welcome to walk it." He flipped open one of the saddle-bags and spoke before Obi-Wan could get a word in. "This is Sapir," he said, patting the horse’s flank. "She’s a fine lady—smarter and far better-mannered than the lot of us." 

Obi-Wan glanced between them; after a moment of reluctance, he reached out to smooth his hand over the velvet of Sapir’s nose. "Hello there, lovely girl," he murmured to her, leaning in to let her huff and snuffle at his hair. 

Qui-Gon pulled a pair of thick, wool socks out of his pack and tossed them to Obi-Wan. He followed it with his own spare cloak, "Put those on, then up you get." 

The cloak nearly drowned Obi-Wan’s skinny frame, puddling into a mass of heavy, brown wool at his feet. Regardless, Obi-Wan moved with practiced ease as he swung himself up onto the saddle, sitting far forward and taking only a moment to shift and draw the cloak tighter about his body, to pull the hood up over his head. 

"Mind your feet," Qui-Gon murmured as he followed suit. He settled himself against Obi-Wan’s back and took up Sapir’s reins, resting his hands upon his own thighs. "Tell me," he asked, "What did Tamson say to you that cost him his sword hand?" 

Obi-Wan’s fingers clenched tight around the pommel. "He assured me I wouldn’t be so quiet once he had me on his cock." 

Qui-Gon hummed, a thoughtful noise. "Bespin Keep is full of alphas who would tell you such things. It would serve you well to learn your place there quickly, young one." 

Obi-Wan’s expression grew poisonous. "And what is that?" he hissed over his shoulder. 

"As the favored omega of the Field Marshal, so when you are faced with such alphas in the future," Qui-Gon murmured, "I will not fault you for taking your knife directly to the item in question." 

Obi-Wan said nothing, but his expression furrowed and his shoulders sagged. 

They rode quietly for a time. Qui-Gon kept to the back of the group, just out of reach of curious gazes. Surprisingly, it was Obi-Wan who broke the silence between them. 

"Sir." 

"Yes?" 

"I believe that I’ve mischaracterized you twice now," he said quietly. "I apologize for it." 

"Accepted," Qui-Gon said simply. "I’m not a cruel man, Obi-Wan, but neither am I a kind one. I won’t make it easy for you. No easier than I would for one of my alphas." 

"I don’t need you to," Obi-Wan replied. He paused for a moment and then asked, almost hesitantly, "When we return to Bespin, am I to be Ben to you?" 

Qui-Gon frowned. "It’s not your name." 

"But—" 

"You are Obi-Wan Kenobi, and you’ll be known as Obi-Wan Kenobi. Let Ele-Wan’s deception be revealed as it will from that," Qui-Gon said. "We’ll negotiate our arrangement further at the Keep. Until then, keep your head down and remain close to me at all times." 

"Yes, sir." 

"Good lad." 

  


* * *

  


Only young Muln tried his luck with the omega, and only on the very first night of their journey. High on confidence and youthful swagger, he’d sidled up to Obi-Wan with a hand at the small of his back and a cocky grin. 

Qui-Gon had snarled deep and low in his throat, tapping into his ancient instincts at the transgression of another alpha. A _competitor_. 

Every head had snapped up to stare in shock at the display—including Obi-Wan’s. Muln had stumbled away, nearly falling onto his backside. He stammered out an apology, cowed, eyes pinned to the ground in submissiveness to a superior. 

"The omega is _mine_ ," Qui-Gon all but growled, casting a dark glare around the company. He loomed tall over Obi-Wan’s back, drawn up to his full, staggering height. "Not a _one_ of you is to touch him." 

After that, the alphas kept their distance. 

Obi-Wan ate little and slept less, devoting himself to Sapir when they rested, secluding himself in the Marshal’s tent once they set up camp. Qui-Gon had awoken in the dead-hours on their third night to find Obi-Wan awake and seated with his knees drawn up, eyes luminous in the dark, watching the flap of the tent. Qui-Gon’s hunting knife rested loosely in his grip. 

Qui-Gon hadn’t remarked on it, only the next night he silently changed the arrangement to place himself between Obi-Wan and the opening of the tent. Obi-Wan said nothing, but had squirmed and fidgeted until he’d wrapped himself in Qui-Gon’s cloak, cocooning himself in the scent of protective alpha, and finally slept. 

The morning after, rather than clutching the pommel of the saddle, Obi-Wan finally let his hands rest on Qui-Gon’s arm around his waist, thin fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve. 

Only a few minutes later did Qui-Gon notice Obi-Wan curiously inching the cloth up, exposing a flash of dark blue-green underneath. He uttered a noise of admonishment and jerked to smooth his sleeve back down. 

Obi-Wan dropped his hands as though he’d been burned. 

  


* * *

  


The landscape slowly changed over the course of their journey; the flat plains of Obi-Wan’s homeland gave way to forested foothills that grew ever wider and taller. At daybreak on the ninth morning, the fog parted to reveal a steep mountain range, dense with variegated green and shrouded in the mist of its thousand waterfalls. 

At the highest peak, just visible as though it were floating atop the drifting clouds, sat the ancient stone-walled Bespin Keep. It was the same miraculous sight that had spurred the place’s nickname— 

_Cloud City_. 

Qui-Gon motioned over Maul—a westlander himself with a face of tattoos and sharp-filed teeth, no less fearsome for his soft voice and reserved nature. Qui-Gon leaned over in his saddle to speak in a low voice with him, below Obi-Wan’s hearing. 

Maul glanced at Obi-Wan—grown lank-haired and filthy over the journey—briefly before nodding, uttering, ' _Yes, sir_ ', and spurring his mount on to ride ahead of them into the high city. 

"I’ve never left Stewjon before," Obi-Wan admitted softly, the most he’d said in days; his young voice sounded coarse with disuse. "I’ve never seen a place so beautiful as this…" 

"Aye," Qui-Gon agreed. He lifted a broad hand and pointed upward towards the mountains. "The pass through the mountains is to the south of the Keep, lets out right between Scarif and Mon Cal. Follow this road onwards to the north, and it’ll lead you straight into the Light Forest of Asmeru. Chandrilan to the south." 

They made up the Core Territories, united at the end of the Ancient War; the war itself not ancient—only thirty-five years gone—so much as the sentiments behind it. Chandrilan had allied with Bespin early and still enjoyed the prosperity of it. They, in turn, brought Scarif and Mon Cal to heel beneath the heavy, bloody losses of years-long campaigns. 

Asmeru, the wildest and most independent of the territories, had fought itself into obliteration. There was little left in its forests but mass graves, ghost towns, and hard lessons learnt. 

Obi-Wan was staring off at the north horizon, as though fascinated by the idea of the Light Forest, and with little knowledge of its tragic reality. "I should like to see such places, I think." 

"Maybe one day," Qui-Gon said, "but not this one." 

The company rested and watered the horses before they began the climb into Bespin Keep. They wound higher and higher, periodically stopping at the little, wooden way-stations designed to soften the journey. 

"Here," Qui-Gon said, reaching around to offer Obi-Wan something in the palm of his hand. It turned out to be a piece of candy wrapped in waxed paper. "Bitter-honey taffy. It’ll help you adjust to the pressure change," he explained. "Make your ears pop." 

"…Thank you." 

Twilight was falling as they rode into the city; the Keep itself sat at the highest point, not so much a single stronghold as it was its own, walled city-within-a-city. They approached a set of heavily fortified iron gates, guards standing to attention and saluting their Marshal as his retinue passed through and into the Keep proper. 

It was an easy thing to lose all concept of space and depth, up and down. Over thousands of years, the immense Keep had been both built out _of_ and _into_ the mountain; it was a beautiful labyrinth of soaring bluestone buttresses, woven throughout the waterfalls and upper reaches of Bespin’s river system; bridges, walkways, covered breezeways, and enormous, vaulted buildings of wrought metal, carved wood, and fine, iridescent glass—some structures free-standing, some projecting outward from the rock faces, their rooms carved deeper within. 

Vines and elegant willow trees had settled themselves waywardly throughout, wreathing the Keep in rich, green-marbled leaves and pale blossoms. The sound of water was everywhere, as was the fresh, clean-bright smell of it. 

Obi-Wan’s hands were tight on Qui-Gon’s arm, his expression awestruck by the ethereal, dreamlike beauty of the place. 

Qui-Gon leaned forward in the saddle. "Welcome to your new home, Obi-Wan Kenobi," he said quietly. 

  


* * *

  


By ones and twos, the alphas of Qui-Gon’s retinue broke away for their own homes or barracks. 

The Marshal’s apartments were located in an area called the Twelfth Grove. It was one of the most ancient and densely wooded parts of the Keep, rumored to have been the tradesman’s ward during the original phase of construction. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan rode on alone, the streets growing darker, narrower, older and more winding as they did. 

"We’re here, young one." 

They faced a finely crafted but modest stone house built against the bare rock face, like so many other structures throughout the Keep. It had a haphazard sort of air—individual rooms and corridors staggered by half-steps down three levels, with a lowest-level garden wall that curved out of sight around the bank. 

The cottage’s large, glass-pane windows were dark save one on the main level. It flickered with soft flame-light, muted through gauzy, translucent curtains inside. 

A beta servant met them in the courtyard, ready to take Sapir for a well-deserved rest, and to refresh and re-pack the heavy saddle bags. Qui-Gon rubbed the mare’s nose and murmured his thanks to her before she was led away. 

Obi-Wan was all but tottering on his feet from soreness and sheer exhaustion, a sorry sight indeed as he hobbled behind Qui-Gon through the front door and directly into a drawing room. It was fire-warmed and cozy, almost cluttered with its laden shelves, careworn furniture, and layers of thick, burgundy-hued rugs. 

Seated comfortably by the fireplace, a man was waiting for them. He looked like no one who had ever existed out in the hinterlands; nothing like those hard, war-marked alphas who’d surrounded Obi-Wan since their departure from Stewjon. 

Obi-Wan stared. 

_Omega_. 

Every bit of him looked as though he reveled in the word, _luxuriated_ in it—turned all those things the Kenobi alphas sneered at right back around and flaunted them. Pale, fine-featured and slim with long, silver-shot black hair, he was extraordinarily beautiful in every way the westlanders would have found shameful. 

Most curious of all, he had a pearly white scar on his right cheekbone, shaped in a broken circle. 

"Welcome back!" the omega called out cheerily, standing to greet the Marshal in a ripple of rich, black robes. "I’d put money down that those wildlings out in the plains would eat you alive." His eyes were ice-blue, nearly unsettling in their intensity, and they fixated immediately on Obi-Wan with obvious question. 

"They may yet," Qui-Gon said, brushing past the omega, deeper into the drawing room towards a far door. He sloughed his personal bag off into the corner of the room and tipped his head towards where Obi-Wan still hovered in the doorway. "Obi-Wan, this is Xanatos du Crion," he said. "Xan is the Seneschal for the Keep, and he can be trusted." 

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Xanatos demanded, looking between them now. "Trusted with what?" 

"Xan, please show him to the Omega House and have him situated there." Qui-Gon paused and said over his shoulder, "Give him my colors." 

"Your co—" Xanatos’ eyebrows nearly shot up into his hairline. "You took an omega?" 

"From a certain point of view," Qui-Gon muttered. "You’ve done well, Obi-Wan. Get settled in for now—and rest assured that Xan is far more bark than bite," he said, then disappeared down the narrow, stone stairwell. 

"Qui-Gon!" Xanatos shouted after him, braced against the arched doorway. He smacked his hand against the wall. "Don’t ignore me, you old cave-bat!" 

The only reply was his own echo. 

Xanatos spun on his heel and narrowed those eerie eyes at his new charge. "You," he said, poking his finger in the air. "Obi-what?" 

Obi-Wan’s jaw worked once, twice before he found his voice again. "—Wan," he grated out, staring at the other omega. "Obi-Wan." 

Xanatos nodded and shoved the heavy sleeves of his robes up his arms. "Follow me. Don’t touch anything ’til you’ve bathed." He looked Obi-Wan over, dubious. "Twice over." 

"Is it so bad?" 

"Yes," Xanatos said briskly, and flicked his long fingers. "Come." 

They left, not through the main entryway, but through a narrow door at the end of a small corridor behind the stairwell. Xanatos had a quick, long-legged stride that kept him a clean two paces ahead of Obi-Wan as they walked. He moved with no sound except the rustling of heavy robes, his footfalls silent next to the awkward shuffle of Obi-Wan’s borrowed field-boots. 

"I’m—I couldn’t bathe," Obi-Wan suddenly blurted out. He seemed to struggle with the rest of his words. "Not with—there were only alphas, and I couldn’t—not in the open like that—" 

"I hardly blame you," Xan interjected, without breaking his stride. "Strongest military in the known world, yet still baffled at the notion of traveling with single omega," he said with a touch of reproach. "Where are you from?" 

"The west. The lowland plains." 

"How awful for you," said Xan. "What’s your age?" 

"Seventeen." 

"Not the youngest we’ve ever had in-residence, but the youngest here now," Xan said thoughtfully. "Though we’ve not many omegas in at the moment, not since last spring’s bonding ceremonies." 

"I—was the Marshal not supposed to?" 

"Supposed to what?" 

"Bring me here," said Obi-Wan. "It just seemed to—surprise you." 

"It’s his right to do so, as an alpha of noble and military rank within the Keep." Xan stopped, so suddenly that Obi-Wan almost collided with his back. He turned and pinned the boy with a strange, curious look. "What were you expecting?" 

"I wasn’t—I didn’t," Obi-Wan tripped over his words. "It happened very suddenly, and we didn’t—we didn’t speak much of it. On the journey here." 

Xan clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. "'Course you didn’t. That man has all the self-awareness of a squid when it suits him." 

"A— _squid?_ " Obi-Wan looked shocked at Xan’s irreverence. "He negotiated the _Armistice_ —" 

"Best chuck him off the pedestal sooner rather than later, petal," Xan said. "I’ll tell you now he drools in his sleep, too." 

"Oh—" Obi-Wan’s eyes flickered to the old, healed-over bond bite visible on Xan’s neck, just beneath the crisp line of his collar. "Is Marshal Jinn your mate?" 

"No," said Xan, briskly but not unkindly. "I don’t have one. Not anymore." 

"I’m sorry." 

"So am I. Come along." 

  


* * *

  


The entrance to the Omega House proper was protected by a wrought-iron gate and two heavily armed, beta guards. They bowed respectfully at Xanatos and watched Obi-Wan with unabashed curiosity. 

"Nield and Cerasi," Xan said as they had passed through. 

There wasn’t enough time for Obi-Wan to marvel at the cavernous glass-domed atrium at the heart of the Omega House. Xan led him through an ornate archway and into a wide corridor, tiled floor-to-ceiling in iridescent glass that shifted and glimmered beneath the warm lamplight. The air was warmer, more humid, and carried the drifting scent of clean water and herbs. Inlaid doors lined the interior side, and Xan appeared to pick one at random—motioning Obi-Wan to go ahead of him. 

It opened into a luxurious private washroom dominated by a deep, marble soaking-tub. 

Obi-Wan hovered a bit awkwardly while Xanatos turned a brass lever, allowing a flow of steaming, hot water out of a pipe system installed above the room. "There’s little need for modesty here, petal. Nothing I haven’t seen a thousand times over," he said breezily, inspecting a clear bottle on a storage niche above the tub. He opened it and poured a healthy dollop of citrusy soap into the water. "Get your kit off, so I can burn it and have the gardener bury it out in the yard." 

Obi-Wan paused and stared, shirt already halfway off. "I—are you joking?" 

"I suppose so," Xan drawled. "No need to make the plants suffer for it." He turned his back and pretended to fuss with a sponge while Obi-Wan undressed, shoved his filthy clothes into a pile in the corner, and slipped into the steaming bath. He dipped under and scrubbed at his face and greasy hair for a few seconds. When he resurfaced, Xan was seated beside the tub, effortless in the elegance and sensuality that settled around him like silk, long hair drawn over his shoulder and pooling like black ink in his lap. 

He was watching Obi-Wan with a thoughtful expression. 

Obi-Wan drew knobby knees up to his chest, skin already reddening from the heat of the foamy bathwater and scrutiny both. "What was it the Marshal called you?" he asked. "Your title." 

"Full of questions," Xan remarked. " _Seneschal_. I hold guardianship over all omegas housed at the Keep." He frowned and propped his elbow up on the ledge, mindful of his long sleeves. "Do they not have such a person in your westerly courts?" 

"I don’t think so, though I’m the only o—" Obi-Wan paused and swallowed thickly, "all the others are alphas. A few betas." 

"Mostly alphas? Tch, no wonder you stink." Xan wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Who was your guardian, then?" 

Obi-Wan considered this for a moment. "I don’t know—my father, I suppose." 

Xan stared at him. A heavy frost seemed to creep over his demeanor, cold and sharp enough to kill. 

It made Obi-Wan draw back, made him sit up a little straighter and avert his eyes beneath the weight of that look. He shifted, feet squeaking against the bottom of the tub. 

"Your father," Xan repeated. "An alpha?" 

"Yes." 

"I see." His gaze flickered down to the scab on Obi-Wan’s lower lip. "Listen to me well, young one," Xan commanded him. "You’re new, you’re naive, and you’re a _very_ long way away from the westlands. _I_ am your guardian in this place, _not_ Qui-Gon, and certainly no one else," he said, low and fierce. "And if any alpha touches you uninvited, I’ll string their spine up with the washing. Am I clear?" 

"Yes, sir," whispered Obi-Wan, wide-eyed. 

"Excellent," Xanatos said crisply. He clicked clear-lacquered fingernails on the tile. "Now drain the bath, rinse it out, and take another." 

"I don’t—I didn’t bring other clothes with me." 

"Small mercies," Xanatos said, brushing the matter away. "We’ve plenty. The House will provide for all your needs going forward. We’ll have you measured for a wardrobe." He stood to draw a thick, grey robe out from one of the glass-front cabinets, setting it next to the tub, along with a pair of soft slippers. "I’ll get your rooming sorted out." 

  


* * *

  


"This isn’t mine—it can’t be," Obi-Wan whispered. 

The room was far more luxuriant than anything even Ele-Wan might have had, large enough that it could have fit nearly a dozen alphas packed in like the barracks of Obi-Wan’s childhood. Built atop one of the mountain’s waterfalls, a fine mist of precipitation coated the outside of the enormous windows, the sound of rushing water just audible through them. 

A fire flickered away in the wide, stone hearth, and a covered tray of food waited upon an adjacent desk—both called for by Xanatos while Obi-Wan had been in the baths. 

Obi-Wan stood frozen in the doorway, clutching at the thick fabric of his sleeves as he took in his new quarters. 

"Yours until you move in with the Marshal," Xan replied breezily. He held a stack of cloth wrapped in tissue paper, which he went to set down upon a canopy-bed centered against the righthand wall. "The House has its own kitchen, back through the Atrium and two flights down," he explained with practiced ease. "Hot meals are prepared three times a day, though we’re not overly formal about that. You’re welcome to rifle through the larder as you like." He reached into an inner pocket and set something down on the silk coverlet. "Your key. I have one extra and the master." 

"…You’ve been very kind to me." 

Xan tilted his head, turning to look back at Obi-Wan—almost curious. "Is that truly such a surprising thing for you?" 

"It’s just that—you don’t even know me." 

"Kindness with prerequisites is just a transaction." Xan declared as he picked open the tissue-papered bundle on the bed. "These will be large on you, but they’ll do for now," he said crisply. "Indigo for the House of Serenno," he said as he unfolded a soft over-tunic, then laid a wide belt of rich, dark-green cloth atop it, "forest green for the Marshal. He’ll put your beads in himself, I expect." 

Obi-Wan padded close on silent, slippered feet and pressed his fingers into the expensive fabric. His breath hitched and he turned his face away, reddening. 

"Petal, you’re in for a sore time if you think decent clothes are shameful," Xan teased. 

Obi-Wan’s face crumpled. One ugly, heaving sob escaped before he clapped his hands over his mouth, eyes squeezed shut and shoulders shaking as he tried to keep it in. "I'm sorry—" A second sob erupted, and he covered his face, shuddering. 

Xan sighed through his nose. He nudged Obi-Wan to sit down on the edge of the bed and joined him, sitting close enough for their shoulders to press together. He settled his hand against Obi-Wan’s back. "You’ve nothing to be sorry for." 

Obi-Wan dissolved into tears. He pitched forward, doubled over where he sat with his face buried in his hands; his entire, skinny frame racked with the force of his weeping—months’ worth of terror, grief, shame and, finally, _relief_ —all flooding out of him with the force of a burst dam. 

Obi-Wan cried himself into trembling exhaustion, eyes puffy, nose raw and runny. He shivered and snuffled, staring down into his lap. 

"Oh, just use the robe," Xan murmured, almost amused. "Go on, then. I’ve brought you a pair of sleep clothes to change into." 

Obi-Wan blew his nose heartily and messily into the sleeve, grimacing after as he bunched the cloth up around his fist. Then he leaned back in. Instinctively, Obi-Wan nosed under Xanatos’ jaw, seeking out the comforting scent of another omega. Xan’s smell was much different than his own—the subtler, more rounded sweetness of a long-bonded omega. 

Xan tilted his chin up obligingly, patient with his young charge. "Better?" 

Obi-Wan nodded, his hair damp against Xan’s chin. "I didn’t—I don’t mean to offend—" he mumbled in a thick voice. 

"I know, darling," Xan said. "I suppose it’ll take more than a day to convince you things are different here for us. There are still certain expectations placed upon us, certain challenges—but it’s a far cry from those who would still see omegas as chattel and— _breeding stock_." Xan’s lip curled at the phrase, something between disgust and a sneer. 

"If the Marshal’d left me there—" Obi-Wan stared down at his hands, worrying at his sash, "I’d have drowned myself in the river before they made me live like that." 

"You would have hardly been the first." Xan leaned forward and carefully tugged up the hem of Obi-Wan’s robe, just high enough to expose the permanent scarring left from his anklets. "Nor are you the first to come to me with marks like that." 

Obi-Wan’s face burned with shame and his eyes welled anew. "People will see them—they’ll know what I was meant to be in Stewjon—" 

"People will _think_ they know," Xan interjected firmly. "Darling, has there been an omega in your life at all?" he asked, "Your mother? A servant, even?" 

Obi-Wan just shook his head. He snuffled and scrubbed a hand over his eyes, then stared down at the smudged tears on the back of his fingers. 

"How did you spend your heats?" Xan asked, softer now. 

"There was a—one of the root cellars locked from the inside," Obi-Wan admitted quietly. He didn’t elaborate and didn’t need to. 

Xan said nothing, but his hand came up to rest against the back of Obi-Wan’s neck, drawing him in that much closer. 

"Please don’t tell the Marshal about this," Obi-Wan whispered against Xan’s collar. 

"What happens in my house is none of his concern," said Xan. He forced some lightness back into his voice. "I dare say I’ve traumatized you enough for one evening. Take tonight to rest, and we shall tackle the world again in the morning." 

"Thank you," Obi-Wan whispered, not meeting Xan’s eyes. 

"Look at me, Obi-Wan," Xan commanded him gently. He cupped Obi-Wan’s face carefully between his thin hands, turning it until he held the boy’s watery gaze. Another tear spilled over, and Xan stroked it away with his thumb. "You’re safe here, young one," he said firmly. "And try as he does to convince you otherwise, Qui-Gon is a good man. You’ve done well for yourself." 

  


* * *

  


Xanatos never bothered knocking; it was a foregone conclusion since he had his own key to Qui-Gon’s home. He spared Qui-Gon enough courtesy to linger in the doorway of the drawing room, though, just as Obi-Wan had only hours before. 

"How did I know you would still be up?" His eyebrows raised in expectation. 

Qui-Gon waved him into the dim room, resigned. He was wearily slumped in the overstuffed chair next to the hearth, long legs stretched out, chin propped on his right hand. He’d bathed and changed into a pair of clean, loose leggings and a pullover tunic, long hair knotted on the back of his head, but it did little to cover his exhaustion. 

Xan sank into the chair next to Qui-Gon’s. "You look poorly, old friend." 

"Same as always, then," Qui-Gon replied dryly. He scratched at the scruff of his right cheek. 

"Oh, I very much doubt that," Xan scoffed. There was a steaming pot of green tea on the table between their chairs. Xan helped himself to Qui-Gon’s half-full cup without asking. "Have done with your brooding, and tell me what you’ve just dropped in my lap." 

"He hasn’t explained?" There was little question, much less surprise, in Qui-Gon’s tone. 

"Shockingly enough, he’s not a chatty one." Sarcasm oozed from Xan’s voice. He sighed, softened. "He’s frightened, but he did well to hide it." 

"I’d hope so," Qui-Gon said. "Boy’s a Kenobi. First and only son of Ele-Wan of Stewjon." 

Xanatos looked over sharply. " _Surely_ not—" 

"Presented six months ago, first omega the family’s seen in two centuries. Was raised as an alpha right up until then." 

"I see." Xan frowned down at the cup in his hands, worrying his thumb over the rim. "If it weren’t for the red hair, I don’t think I’d believe you," he mused. "He was meek as a dormouse with me." 

"Lad’s been on the brink of collapse for days now. I suspect it’s an exhausting thing, posturing for alphas the way he has been," Qui-Gon said. "And I don’t think he’s even slept with both eyes closed since he presented." 

"Was he abused?" 

"A few beatings. Humiliated. The clan took it as well as one would expect." 

"You know that’s not what I meant." 

Qui-Gon rubbed at the bridge of his crooked nose, closing his tired eyes. "No," he said, "but it was becoming a near thing. Ele-Wan’d have been whoring him 'round the clan leaders soon as his heats settled. Maybe bonded him off down the road, if there were something he wanted enough for it. Obi-Wan knew it, too." 

"And _yet_ ," Xan said, almost sing-song, "The sole omega son of a Kenobi warlord is asleep in my house, ready to have a new wardrobe cut in your colors. Is Ele-Wan’s love for the kingdom so profound he’d offer the boy up so readily?" 

"No," Qui-Gon said flatly. "And if it was before, it won’t be any longer." 

A beat passed in silence. Xanatos’ brow furrowed. "…What have you done, Qui-Gon?" 

Qui-Gon didn’t answer immediately, just got up and went to pour a glass of fine whiskey for the both of them. It was a preemptive peace offering before the whole story came out—from the so-called death of Obi-Wan Kenobi, to his resurrection in Qui-Gon’s quarters, to the sudden and largely unplanned decision to bring back the omega and train him like some sort of secret _apprentice_. 

"He’s my omega only insofar as to maintain our deception. I will not take him during his heats, and I have no intention of bonding with him," Qui-Gon said at the very end of it all. 

Xanatos’ glass was empty nearly twice over and he was pressing his face into his palm. "Gods above, help us," he muttered. He dragged his hand down over his mouth and stared into the fire. "You’re a mad, reckless _fool_ of a man." 

"I know," Qui-Gon admitted, soberly. "It was a—spur of the moment decision. But it was the right one." 

"It will have to be," Xan said darkly. "Now that you’ve brought it to the Keep’s doorstep." 

"We’ll need you, Xan. _Obi-Wan_ will need you to—" Qui-Gon paused to search for the right word, "adjust. To what it means to be an omega." 

"What choice have you given me?" Xan hissed. He drained the rest of his whiskey in one gulp and winced against the burn. "Who else knows the truth of this?" 

"Only you, for now," said Qui-Gon. "Perhaps Tahl, eventually. Tomorrow we ca—" 

"No." 

"—No?" 

"You’ll let the boy sleep tomorrow," Xan said hotly. "In fact, Obi-Wan is mine for the next three days." 

"Xan—" 

Xanatos flicked a dismissive hand at Qui-Gon. "You’ve brought this into my house, _fine_ , but you’ll not set terms for it. Least of all for one of my charges," he said, voice tight with anger. "Three days, then you two can blunder off on this fool’s errand, and we’ll all suffer _merrily_ together for it. Not a second before." 

He cast Qui-Gon a dark look as he rose to his feet to leave. He paused and softened for a breath, as if passing through a shadow of weary sorrow. "You ask because you know I’ll always give, Qui-Gon," he said quietly. " _Always_." 

Qui-Gon caught Xan’s hand, holding it between both of his own, though he didn’t look at him. "Thank you," he said earnestly. 

Xan drew away. "You really shouldn’t." 

  


* * *

  


Xanatos rejected three summons from Qui-Gon before he finally let Obi-Wan out of his grasp. And probably all the better for it. It was the evening of Obi-Wan’s fourth full day at Bespin Keep before he made it back to that warm, cluttered drawing room in the Marshal’s cottage. 

Qui-Gon’s gaze flickered over Obi-Wan’s form, impassive, taking in the changes that new clothes, hot water, and a restful few nights of sleep had made in the boy. It would take more than a few good meals to put some proper weight back on him, but the shadows beneath his eyes had lessened, as had the drawn, wary line of his stance. 

Obi-Wan pinked under the scrutiny, then lifted his chin and weathered it with boyish defiance. He stared right back, never once letting his eyes drop from Qui-Gon’s face. That was a promising change unto itself. 

The fire popped and the charry logs shifted. Qui-Gon motioned to the plush chair directly next to his own. "Xan got you settled in well enough?" 

Obi-Wan sat, poised as if ready to take flight. "I—yes. Thank you." 

The corner of Qui-Gon’s mouth twitched, as though he were suppressing the thought of a smile. "Has he already managed to lose the little firebrand who snuck into my quarters in Stewjon?" he asked. "You mustn’t be afraid to speak freely to me, Obi-Wan. Not if we’re to trust one another going forward in this." 

That, it seemed, was enough to embolden the boy. Obi-Wan shifted back in his chair, worrying at his lip, brow furrowed as he stared into the fireplace a moment. Finally, he glanced sideways. "What do I call you?" 

"Qui-Gon will suffice in private. _Marshal_ or _sir_ , once I present you in public." Qui-Gon lifted a placating hand at Obi-Wan’s resultant sour expression. "It’s a matter of my rank, not of your dynamic, I assure you." 

"And when will that be?" Obi-Wan asked. He swallowed. "When I’m presented as your omega?" 

"Not until you’re eighteen, at the least. Though considering your origins and family’s reputation, no one would look askance at your spending some extra time in the Omega House. We’ll have some leeway with that, I believe, which is to our advantage." 

"My family’s reputation? What do people expect?" Obi-Wan said, incredulous, "Me to be—chewing on the bloody _furniture_ legs, just because of my name?" 

Qui-Gon’s brows lifted in amusement. "There are things that would surprise some here more, I imagine. Tell me," he said, "What have you learned from Xanatos in these three days?" 

Obi-Wan blinked, caught by surprise with the question. "He has tried to educate me on the customs of omegas here." 

"Tried to?" Qui-Gon prompted. 

Obi-Wan’s ears reddened. "In Stewjon, such matters—heats and things—weren’t discussed so… freely," he said. "Xan is—he’s very—" he appeared to struggle for the right word, then decided finally upon, "forthright." 

"If there’s anything Xanatos doesn’t have in spades, it’s shame," Qui-Gon remarked, almost _fondly_. "Learn from me, and I’ll teach you to kill a man with any single weapon. Learn from Xan, and you won’t need one." 

"I think he could make plants wither and die," Obi-Wan muttered, "the way that he looks at things sometimes." 

"A fair observation," Qui-Gon said. "Though I did ask you here because there are a few more serious matters I wish to discuss." 

Obi-Wan schooled his expression into one of intense concentration, as though he were imagining the two of them seated around a table of battle-charts, and not a tufted ottoman. He folded his hands in his lap, almost prim, and oddly incongruous with the company he’d been raised among. 

Qui-Gon reached into his pocket and presented a palmful of beads. They were made of blue glass and glazed with a finish that reflected back a green-hued shimmer beneath the light. "Would you come sit before me?" 

Obi-Wan obeyed and settled on the footrest in front of Qui-Gon’s chair, shuffling around at Qui-Gon’s direction so that he sat sideways, back straight. Still. Attentive. 

Qui-Gon’s fingers, though rough and weapon-callused, were nimble as they sectioned out a piece of hair behind Obi-Wan’s ear, and tied a long bit of string around it. He used the string to pull the strands through the first bead. It would rest along the right side of his neck, above where a bond-bite might go. 

"The braid signifies that you have accepted me as your favored suitor, so to speak. It prevents nothing—other alphas may still approach or pursue you," Qui-Gon explained, "but it will signify to them that my eyes will be on them if they do so." 

"You’re the one to defeat in the battle for my hand and honor," Obi-Wan said dryly. 

"Figuratively more so than literally these days, fortunately, " Qui-Gon said. "We can add more beads if you grow your hair out." 

"Xan thinks I should." 

"It would suit you." 

Obi-Wan worried at his lower lip, quiet for a moment as Qui-Gon worked. "Would someone truly go against the Field Marshal?" 

"A few. There are always those who are waiting and willing to usurp an inch of space, should the right opportunity arise." Qui-Gon sighed and looped on another bead. "And for you, young one, I anticipate there will be more than a few." 

Obi-Wan said nothing, just shifted on his seat and looked a little puzzled by the thought. "And… what of me?" he asked softly. "If I should—favor someone?" 

"You may do as you wish. I won’t hold you to any expectation of celibacy," Qui-Gon said evenly. "I would only ask that you prioritize the safety of our arrangement together, and conduct yourself with discretion to that end." Qui-Gon’s fingers paused for a moment. "Obi-Wan, I must make something very clear to you." 

Obi-Wan’s demeanor was far, far older than his seventeen years—but when he looked up at Qui-Gon, his face touched by firelight, he looked so much younger. 

Qui-Gon’s expression gentled. "There will be times I must touch you, treat you as my omega, in order to maintain our deception," he said. "But I will _never_ lay a hand on you with the intent of an alpha." Qui-Gon carefully tied off the end of the braid. "You have my oath in this, _Maihelé_." 

  


* * *

  


"Mind your footwork!" 

Obi-Wan grunted as his back hit the ground. The noise was masked by the burble of a small mountain stream that cut through Qui-Gon’s courtyard, their movements masked by the tall, stone-block walls. 

"You’re favoring your left side," Qui-Gon said, his face damp with a sheen of sweat. "And they’re training blades for a reason, lad. You can’t pull your hits with me." 

Obi-Wan rolled to his feet once more, handily flipping the blunt dagger in his hand. He was good with it—better than any of the alphas Tahl had seen over in Stewjon. Clean, lightning quick. He moved smartly with it. 

Qui-Gon had the advantage of age and sheer bulk, though. "Ataru is wrong for you," he said, blocking a sharp strike to his leg. He countered with a low swipe that Obi-Wan narrowly avoided. 

"What?" panted Obi-Wan, crouched low and ready to spring. 

"It’s the style of alphas—" Qui-Gon dodged hard to the left, "—for alpha aggression and musculature—" he swept Obi-Wan’s feet, but the boy rolled with the motion and recovered swiftly, hovering just out of reach, "—you can’t put the power behind the motions the style requires." Qui-Gon feinted to Obi-Wan’s left and used the opening to catch him by the waist, flipping him bodily into the grass again and sparing little to soften the blow. " _Footwork_ ," he repeated, staring down at the boy. 

Obi-Wan groaned. "Footwork." 

Qui-Gon offered him a hand up. "I’m switching you to Soresu." 

"Defensive?" Obi-Wan said, brow wrinkling as he let Qui-Gon pull him to his feet. "It was never given consideration in Stewjon." 

Qui-Gon nodded and wiped a hand over his brow, areas of his tunic already soaked through with sweat. "You’ve begun to fall into it naturally," he said. "You’ve scarcely landed a hit, yet I’m the one taxed for breath. If matched evenly in skill, Ataru would always fail against Soresu." 

"I suppose the logic was that anyone should be dead long before they had the chance to tire us out," Obi-Wan remarked. "Any loss was a failure of the person, not of the style." 

"Aggression and ego to match," Qui-Gon said. "Ataru certainly has its place and advantages. We’ll keep you trained up on it, but you can achieve a mastery markedly greater in Soresu than you would have otherwise." 

"Master of Soresu," Obi-Wan said with a crooked smile that dimpled his cheeks. "I think I rather like the sound—" 

A bell interrupted him. It rang once, twice, and a third time in rapid succession, as if it disliked to be kept waiting—certainly whoever ringing it was, impatient as they waited for Qui-Gon to answer his own door. 

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan exchanged a look, their understanding swift and wordless. Qui-Gon tossed his training dagger to Obi-Wan, who caught it and swept up the rest of their weaponry to hastily hide it all in the shrubs behind the garden’s broad willow tree. 

With a quick, parting inspection of the courtyard and motioning Obi-Wan to stay put, Qui-Gon disappeared to greet his visitor. 

Qui-Gon returned only minutes later. He wasn’t alone. 

The alpha at Qui-Gon’s side was nothing less than staggering, in both form and presence. He was of equal height to Qui-Gon, with snow-white hair and heavy, dark brows, his face lined and spotted with age but no less striking for it. Dressed in sleek, rich tunics of indigo and an amber-dark half-cape, he moved with the ease and grace of someone born into the knowledge of his own superior station in life. 

The man took in Obi-Wan’s rumpled appearance, the bits of grass stuck in his hair, and flushed skin and merely raised one brow, coming to his own conclusion. 

"Obi-Wan Kenobi," Qui-Gon said evenly, "Alain Dooku, Lord of Serenno." 

Obi-Wan bowed, any trace of his good humor evaporated. He was all politesse and wary formality now. 

Dooku approached without hesitation and took Obi-Wan by the chin, tipping his head up to examine the curve of his jaw, his nose, the bright leaf-green color of his eyes, the little mole on his right cheekbone. He nudged his thumb under Obi-Wan’s upper lip to examine his teeth and Obi-Wan recoiled, jerking away from one touch too far. 

"Peace, little one," Dooku said, his voice deeper even than Qui-Gon’s—deep enough to crack the very foundations of the Keep, it seemed. "Our Qui-Gon has never shown an inkling of interest in taking an omega before you. I’ve come to see the one who caught his eye." He never dropped his gaze from Obi-Wan, but tilted his head to ask back over his shoulder, "He’s certainly pretty, but that has never been enough for you. What was it, then?" 

Qui-Gon came up just behind Dooku, arms crossed as he considered Obi-Wan. "At dinner, on my final evening in Stewjon, the alpha of an allied clan tried to take liberties with him," he said. "Obi-Wan maimed the man’s fighting hand with his own boot knife and crushed his nose for it." 

Dooku arched an eyebrow. 

"That was when I decided I would have him," Qui-Gon finished. 

"And you were amenable to this, little one?" 

Obi-Wan’s eyes cut back to Dooku. "I was," he said evenly. "The Marshal still has both of his hands, after all." 

Dooku’s other eyebrow shot up. "His impertinence is certainly a suitable match for yours." 

Qui-Gon just sighed. 

"What strange times these are," murmured Dooku, "that an heir of Serenno might have red hair and the blood of a Kenobi in them." He straightened, hands folded at the small of his back. "Very well. I shall be most interested in the progress of your courtship." 

"Of course." 

Dooku turned back to Qui-Gon. "It is inconceivably rude to mix official matters with a personal visit," he said, "but I do have a favor to ask of you while I have your ear, Qui-Gon." 

Qui-Gon made a dismissive motion, as though to wave off Dooku’s formality. "You’re welcome to borrow my ear anytime you like, business or otherwise," he said. 

"I had a chance discussion with the Minister of Commerce this morning," said Dooku. "It seems there has been a spate of robberies along the north road towards Asmeru. It’s becoming a cause of great concern for him." 

"Unfortunate, but not unusual for the area," Qui-Gon said with a frown. "What’s changed?" 

"Indeed," Dooku agreed, "but a number of goods and supply caravans coming in from the northwesterly regions have come under attack, and the Trade Federation representatives are working themselves into apoplexy for it. The Minister wondered if he might borrow a small company of your alphas to patrol the area, and restore peace to both it and Viceroy Gunray’s mind." 

"And by extension his own, I assume," Qui-Gon said dryly. He dipped his head. "Certainly. He may have his pick." 

"He has a fellow in mind named Maul," Dooku said. "They fought together in the war, or some such." 

"I know him. Reserved, but effective and a highly skilled fighter," Qui-Gon remarked. "He’ll serve well." 

"Minister Palpatine preemptively sends you his thanks, but I’m sure they’ll double once the Trade Federation eases off." He laid a broad hand on Qui-Gon’s shoulder, then, his expression softening. "It’s been too long since we’ve shared a meal and caught up. Would you come for dinner soon?" 

Qui-Gon squeezed Dooku’s wrist, a heavy look passing between them. "Of course." 

"Excellent." Dooku turned his gaze to Obi-Wan, hitherto observing in silence. "We’ve been considering some new floral arrangements for the spring conservatory. Perhaps your Obi-Wan might be of some assistance in that regard." 

Obi-Wan blinked and looked baffled for a moment. He recovered himself and dipped into a respectful—if slightly stilted—bow. He said nothing, watching in tense silence as Qui-Gon walked Dooku out of the courtyard and to the gate. 

When he returned, Obi-Wan was waiting, glaring at him from beneath the concealing shade of a willow tree. "You're the _heir of Serenno?_ " he hissed at Qui-Gon. "You didn’t tell me this—you didn’t tell me any of this!" 

"It changes nothing about our arrangement—" 

"It does for me!" 

"I didn’t bring you here to _breed_ you, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said sharply. "And no amount of pressure from Dooku will change that." 

Obi-Wan was speechless at the vulgarity, his jaw slack. 

"I—apologize," Qui-Gon said, suddenly sounding very tired. "Being Dooku's heir is a part of my life I deal with rarely, and a part I would do away with entirely, were it up to me," he said. "Dooku retains full control over the affairs of House Serenno, but he’s been…" Qui-Gon frowned, "thinking of the future more, in recent months, and my role in that." 

Obi-Wan swallowed thickly and lifted his gaze, meeting Qui-Gon’s with determination and defiance. "Expectations of _you_ are expectations of _me_ now," he said. "You asked for my trust, and I give it to you readily, but I cannot do this without yours in return." 

A beat passed in tense silence before Qui-Gon conceded. "You’re right," he said. "You’re right. I’m a—private man. It’s a tendency that is difficult for me to overcome." 

Obi-Wan scowled. "Are you expecting sympathy from me?" 

Qui-Gon stared for a moment, then threw his head back with a bark of surprised laughter. "No," he said, "No, I suppose I shouldn’t. I apologize, Obi-Wan. You were right to be angry over my omission, and you were right to challenge me on it. Your candor serves the both of us well." 

"And what should I tell people?" Obi-Wan asked. "Every day that I’m not waddling about, picking out names for the _future heir of Serenno?_ " 

"Should anyone ask, you may place the blame squarely where it belongs," Qui-Gon said. He reached forward to pluck a wayward leaf out of Obi-Wan’s hair. "On me." 

Obi-Wan faltered as his face flared scarlet. "Are you suggesting—that I imply to people that—" 

"Come," Qui-Gon called back over his shoulder. "Let’s continue our training, lest we grow soft." 

  


* * *

  


Life settled into a rhythm. 

Being barred from his own education had been one of the greatest of Obi-Wan’s hurts as an omega in Stewjon. Obi-Wan’s days in Bespin were therefore spent in study among Qui-Gon’s piles of scrolls and books—history, military strategy, negotiating tactics, botany. The great ancient poets and philosophers. Anything he could get his hands on. Even a memorable pamphlet on how to construct a makeshift water-purifier when hopelessly lost out in the wild. 

Obi-Wan’s evenings were reserved for physical training, once Qui-Gon’s duties were done. 

Sometimes he would spend a full day with Xanatos, an inquisitive, green-eyed shadow at his heels. Most of it involved the dry aspects of managing the House, punctuated by a few moments of jarring reality of life as an omega. 

"Don’t look so scandalized, petal," Xan said as they inspected a newly purchased, polished-glass phallus in the Omega House’s main storage room. "You’ll go mad without this or something like it, once your heats settle. Especially if you won’t be taking an alpha." He paused for a moment and stared thoughtfully at the object in his hand, then tapped his index finger against the bulbous alpha-knot at the base. "Though I dare say a proper toy can be a far more enjoyable and efficient bed-partner than half the alphas blundering about this place cock-first." 

Theoretical knowledge, unfortunately, was little substitute for reality. 

Obi-Wan spent his eighteenth birthday sequestered away in his room, suffering through a volatile, four-day heat, his body not yet evened into a predictable cycle; it kept Xanatos by his side with cold compresses and tinctures as he tried to keep the worst of the fever and muscle spasms at bay. 

"This is hideous," Obi-Wan croaked on the fourth morning, naked as the day he was born and coated in his own dried sweat and slick. It was the most coherent he’d been in days. Plastered face-down on his pillow, he dragged his head up to glare balefully at Xanatos. "Absolutely _hideous_." 

Xan looked beyond exhausted, lank-haired and shadow-eyed where he slumped in his chair at Obi-Wan’s bedside, bundled into his usual—albeit wrinkled—flowing, black robes. He clutched a cup of thick, steaming coffee against the hollow of his chest. "Yes, well," he muttered into it. "Happy Birthday." 

"It is decidedly _not_ ," Obi-Wan declared mulishly, and collapsed back onto his pillow. 

  


* * *

  


Rumor swept through the Keep like brushfire. 

_Wildling—warlord’s son—so uncivilized—westlander—_

_—the Marshal’s omega—_

_—a Kenobi—_

It was Xanatos who finally nudged Obi-Wan out of the safety of the Omega House, and into the wider world of the Keep’s court omegas. 

"Fake or no, tell that sorry alpha of yours to get you out on his arm at the Magistrate’s Reception," he’d said hotly, poking his finger at the center of Obi-Wan’s chest. "I’m wholly prepared to wring the meddling _life_ out of the next person who asks me about you." 

It would be as suitable an event as any, a rather pro forma affair to acknowledge the Keep’s mid-level ministers. Not so terribly formal, and just large enough that the newest, most fascinating addition to the Omega House wouldn’t be thrust into the center of attention. 

Qui-Gon agreed. 

He dressed well enough for it in a starched, cream-colored formal-coat and black knee-boots polished to a high shine. Waiting in his study, arms crossed over his broad chest, he gazed out the front window, watching the courtyard with a thoughtful expression. 

The sound of Obi-Wan’s footsteps was deliberately loud, as were the creaking wooden floorboards as he hovered in the doorway. "You brushed your hair and everything," he quipped, bold enough now to know what he could get away with when it came to humor and the lofty Field Marshal. 

Surprisingly, quite a lot. They were emerging slowly, tentatively—like blossoms beneath the melting winter frost—but the boy had a wicked sense of humor and a wit that was faster and sharper than any blade in the Keep’s arsenal. 

Qui-Gon did little to discourage it, and Xan took outright delight in it. Pleased to have a partner in crime at Qui-Gon’s expense, perhaps. 

"My hair, my teeth. Sloshed down the whole lot of it in the stables." Qui-Gon turned towards the door and paused for a beat, eyebrows raised. "Your finer clothing was delivered, I see." 

As ever, their Seneschal’s eye was impeccable. Xan’d had each garment cut to skim Obi-Wan’s lithe frame—with clean lines, elegant tailoring, and color choices that drew from both Serenno and Stewjon. Fitted, tan leggings tucked into smooth-leather tall boots, a slim tunic of cream silk and a rich, sleeveless surcoat in deep-blue brocade, fastened from throat-to-knee with bronze hook-and-eye clasps, tight around his waist before it opened into two slits at either hip. 

Finally, it seemed, with enough time and care, Obi-Wan was beginning to look once more like the nobility he was. "I feel a bit as though I’m wearing a costume," he admitted, smoothing his hands down his sides self-consciously. 

Qui-Gon hummed a noise of understanding. "Xan’s been known to make some head-turning clothing choices, but I doubt even he would be so bold as to send you out in your old training armor." 

"Well, that would certainly be a way to make a strong first impression." 

"I doubt you’ll have to worry about that, young one," Qui-Gon said. He considered Obi-Wan for a moment longer. "You don’t look like you’re wearing a costume. You just look like yourself." 

At that, Obi-Wan’s expression eased into a small, if slightly embarrassed smile. He looked down, then poked at one of the ornate fastenings of his surcoat. "I shall get there, I believe," he murmured. "Eventually." 

"You will," Qui-Gon assured him. "Come. I have something for you." 

He led Obi-Wan outside. 

Evening lit the courtyard in a wash of resonant, golden light. Sleepy-eyed and slow, as though basking in the warmth of it, stood a beautiful, sorrel-coated thoroughbred with a bright blaze of white down her muzzle. She already had a mouthful of the landscaping, littering the flagstones with bits of leaves and pink late-summer blossoms as she chewed through a myrtle bush. 

Obi-Wan glanced up at Qui-Gon, his hesitation clear. 

Qui-Gon tipped his head towards the lovely creature. "Go on." 

Obi-Wan approached gingerly, hand outstretched and downturned so she could catch his scent. She’d been fitted with an exquisite bridle with polished bronze hardware, the cognac leather tooled with an intricate pattern reminiscent of wind-blown field-grass. 

"What’s her name?" Obi-Wan asked, his expression soft with adoration as he petted down the white of her blaze. 

"She doesn’t yet have one," said Qui-Gon. "She’s been waiting on you for it." 

Obi-Wan looked over sharply. 

"Yours," Qui-Gon affirmed with something that, in a kinder world, might have been a smile. "Wherever this path takes you, Obi-Wan—even if it takes you away from here, from me—she belongs to you alone." 

Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, hands cupped around the mare’s cheeks as he pressed their foreheads together. "Hello there, my darling," he crooned, curling his fingers to run the backs of them down the length of her muzzle. 

The mare flicked her ears back and forth and nickered, snuffling into and mussing Obi-Wan’s neatly combed hair. 

"From the same breeder as Sapir," said Qui-Gon, coming to stand beside him. "Tano said she’s a gentle thing, smart as a whip with a mischievous streak that’ll sneak up on you. I thought you might suit one another that way." He ran a broad, appreciative hand over the ridge of her russet mane. "And she has your coloring," he added, a bit quieter. 

"…Tarine," said Obi-Wan softly, his voice thick. "Her name is Tarine." 

"Tarine and Sapir," Qui-Gon said. "They’ll be good company for one another." 

Further within the Keep, a bell sounded out the sixth hour. 

"Are you ready for tonight?" asked Qui-Gon. 

Obi-Wan stared at his own feet for a beat, nodded once, and tried to be discreet when he wiped at his eyes. He gave Tarine a parting nuzzle and stepped back—then he took a deep breath, and lifted his chin. "I’m ready," he said, voice strong. 

Qui-Gon laid his broad hand atop of Obi-Wan’s shoulder, a grounding, tactile reassurance. "Just remember your place, _Maihelé_." 

_Wildling—warlord’s son—so uncivilized—westlander—_

The Marshal’s chosen one. 

Kenobi.  
  
  



End file.
